


A Discovery Of Sorts

by clear_as_starlight



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff and Smut, Hair-pulling, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Praise Kink if you squint, Tiny bit of Angst, getting frisky at Valley Forge, i should be asleep but here we are, only a tiny bit i promise, shenanigans in the garret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 10:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30036972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clear_as_starlight/pseuds/clear_as_starlight
Summary: Hamilton attempts to assist Laurens, whose queue ribbon has tangled in his hair. An unwitting tug on the strands leads to some discoveries on Laurens' part, and it fortunate they have the garret to themselves for exploration of such things ;)
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 16
Kudos: 41





	A Discovery Of Sorts

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy xD  
> This oneshot can be considered a "deleted scene" from my fic, Merited Partiality, but you definitely don't have to have read that to understand this. If you have read it, this takes place in February at Valley Forge, after Hamilton has recovered from his illness. Enjoy!

It is cold, in the garret, perched at the summit of Potts’ House—ridiculously so. A bone numbing, skin piercing, blood freezing cold, where one small bump against a piece of furniture, a wall, may result in said limb feeling as though it may fall off immediately.  
  
Laurens has been further concerned by such cold since Hamilton’s illness last month, his stubbornness still knowing no bounds, as he sits awake far too long most nights, working at some task or another, coat hastily thrown over shivering shoulders.  
  
Whilst Hamilton occupied by such, Laurens shivers also, alone in the shared bed, blankets drawn up to his chin in vain, arms wrapped round himself so as to preserve what little body heat he may possess.  
  
This particular eve, with Laurens already feeling low on account of the current wretched state of their army, and the weather appearing to correspond with such a mood, he decides he has not the patience for waiting, nor the temperament for arguments, playful or otherwise.  
  
“Hamilton,” he says sternly. “Put down your pen; come to bed.”  
  
“Hmm,” Hamilton replies. “If I may just—”  
  
“No.”  
  
“If I were to only—”  
  
“ _No_.”  
  
“Sir, you try my patience—”  
  
“Alexander, you try my soul.”  
  
Hamilton raises his eyebrows, finally glances up at Laurens through the candlelight. “Well then.”  
  
Laurens huffs. “Yes.”  
  
“I try your _soul_? Does that not seem rather melodramatic, Jack?”  
  
Laurens shrugs, buries deeper into the blankets. “On such an occasion as this, no, Sir, it does not.”  
  
“No?” Hamilton stands, stretches slightly, but not so that he may graze his knuckles on the low ceiling. “And some may call me dramatic. I think not, compared with such words as that.”  
  
Laurens only shivers. “I am too cold for either patience _or_ dramatics. Come to bed.”  
  
Finally—far too slowly for Laurens’ liking—Hamilton begins to properly disrobe coat, stockings and vest, though it is perhaps a possibility they may both be required to wear their coats to bed this eve, so terribly cold as it be.  
  
Hamilton approaches the bed side. “Move over, then, my dear,” he says softly, gaze tender.  
  
Laurens glances up at him, eyes narrowed. “Hmm. I think not, now. I have created such warmth as I crave without your assistance, and I shall not have you steal it.”  
  
Hamilton gapes. “ _John_. You protest at my being out of bed, and then bar me from joining you in it. How am I to know what should be required of me now?”  
  
Laurens chuckles. “Perhaps, then, you may next come to bed when asked.”  
  
Hamilton crosses his arms. “Or perhaps I shall seek out Tilghman; make a bedfellow of him instead.”  
  
Laurens feels a smirk cross his face, snorts. “Oh, aye? I think Tilghman may not grant you certain favours.”  
  
A flush crosses Hamilton’s face. He shifts, squirms slightly. “Ah—on that score, you are correct. But I cannot grant, nor be granted, such favours when I yet remain out of bed, as I may instead die from frostbite. And then where should you be, Sir?” He winks, eyes twinkling with amusement. Laurens knows he cannot continue this charade much longer, for truly he craves Hamilton’s touch beside him so, arms and legs entwined close, skin soft against skin.   
  
He sighs, makes a show of lifting the blankets a little. “I suppose I must allow you in, then, if only for the sake of my own future pleasure.”  
  
Hamilton rolls his eyes, but wriggles under the covers, managing to prevent as much warmth as he possibly can from escaping. “I think this arrangement best for me, as I enter a bed already warmed perfectly.”  
  
Under the sheets, Laurens kicks Hamilton’s leg softly. “Oh, hush. I should prefer I were not forced to shiver first.”  
  
Hamilton moves closer, reaches out of the blankets to touch Laurens’ lips with one finger. Laurens near flinches at how icy it be.  
  
“Perhaps I ought repay you for such suffering?”  
  
Laurens feels himself flush now, despite the all-encompassing cold. “Oh? And how might you propose to do such?”  
  
“Well.” Hamilton traces over Laurens’ cheek, down the side of his jaw, slips hand round behind his neck. “Oh! Laurens. You have not removed your queue?”  
  
Laurens blinks, lifts hand free of blankets. “Oh. No; it seems I have not.” With hurried fingers that become colder and less agile as the seconds pass, he fiddles with the ends of the ribbons, but—  
  
“I believe it is stuck.”  
  
“Pardon?” Hamilton, whose hands have been roving down Laurens’ side, slipping under his shirt, twisting patterns into the delicate skin of his hips, pauses, clearly startled. His eyes have grown hooded. “What is stuck?”  
  
“The ribbon.” Laurens huffs. “No matter.”  
  
Hamilton frowns, eyes darting with miraculous heated fire, though the candle remains behind his head. “I shall fix it for you. Roll over.”  
  
Laurens raises his eyebrows, blinks. “Oh?”  
  
Hamilton only pushes him slightly, nails digging into his skin lightly.  
  
Laurens swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and does as so ordered. He feels Hamilton shuffle closer in the small bed, his fingers carding gently through Laurens’ hair as he begins to tease at the ribbon.  
  
At first, Laurens finds himself fairly tense; although Hamilton has touched his hair many times, never has it been with such a deliberate, such a tender, such a _domestic_ , feel. He slowly begins to relax as Hamilton first releases the ribbon from the insistent strands, begins to work his fingers through the tangled ends.  
  
Eventually, Laurens thinks that the knots must be vanquished, the tangles quite banished, but still Hamilton’s fingers pull delicately through Laurens’ hair, nails scratching his scalp ever so slightly.  
  
Laurens thinks this may lull him to sleep entirely, and though before he wished ardently for other such activities to take place, he now finds himself feeling quite contented, quite safe, quite… _loved_ , though he dare not speak such a thought aloud.  
  
That is, until Hamilton suddenly pauses, surprises Laurens with a light kiss on the back of his neck.  
  
Laurens chuckles. “My dear boy?”  
  
“…Aye?” There is an oddness to Hamilton’s voice, a strangeness to his tone, a…yearning, of a sort.  
  
Laurens stills a moment. “Why have you stopped, my dear?”  
  
Hamilton says nothing for a moment. Then—  
  
“You were enjoying such?”  
  
Laurens does not reply straight away, for there a definite underlying tone to Hamilton’s query, and he knows not entirely what answer should be required of him.  
  
“…I were. Aye.” He makes to roll over to face Hamilton, but Hamilton places a hand to his side, stopping him. “Alexander?”  
  
Hamilton kisses Laurens again, but this time upon the sensitive skin where shoulder meets neck. “Shall I continue?”  
  
Again, that underlying tone that sounds as though a riddle Laurens cannot yet solve. “Aye. If you should like to, my dear.”  
  
Hamilton exhales slightly; Laurens feels his breath ghost across the nape of his neck, shivers, though not at all from cold.  
  
Hamilton’s fingers begin moving gently through Laurens' hair again, though this time, it feels less as though he attempting to rid the strands of tangles. Slowly, slowly, it seems as though Hamilton moves his entire hand through Laurens’ hair, as though all five fingers a gentle comb. Once more, it feels rather relaxing, though there some edge to it that Laurens cannot quite put words to.  
  
Then, as Hamilton reaches the crown of Laurens’ head, he appears to tighten his grip very lightly, tugs ever so delicately.  
  
Laurens gasps, suddenly startled by a small feeling of pleasure tingling through his limbs.  
  
Hamilton has stopped again. “John?” he questions gently. “Jack?”  
  
Laurens is not entirely sure what has occurred. “I—”  
  
Hamilton’s hand remains where it is. “Shall I—” His fingers start to withdraw gently.  
  
“No!” yelps Laurens, before flushing in embarrassment. “That is, I only mean—”  
  
Hamilton removes his hand now, presses against Laurens’ back, leans up, shifts so that he appears over Laurens’ shoulder; now they may meet gazes, see one another face to face. Hamilton’s expression is soft, tender; he smiles, eyes creasing with gentle amusement.  
  
“You _enjoyed_ such greatly, I think?”  
  
“Ah—” Laurens stutters. “I—Hmm.”  
  
Hamilton smiles. “’Tis alright, my Jack. It be not an uncommon reaction.”  
  
Laurens frowns. “No?”  
  
“No.” Hamilton smirks. “I am told, in fact, that it can illicit quite some pleasure, though I have never had such done to me.”  
  
“But you have done so to others?” Laurens knows Hamilton more experienced in such matters than he, though it not a topic they broach often, for Hamilton’s reserve on his past, and Laurens’ own battles with jealousy, on inadequacy, especially in such matters of pleasure as they undertake in this room.  
  
Hamilton nods hesitantly. “Aye. Only once, mind.”  
  
“Well.” Laurens presses his lips together, reaches up to draw Hamilton to him, over him, kisses him gently. “I might—that is, I should like—perhaps you might do so again?”  
  
Hamilton is quiet a moment, then leans down, kisses Laurens lightly on the cheek.  
  
“Aye, if you should desire it. If, however, you desire I might cease, say so, my dear.”  
  
Laurens nods, finds his heart begins to race, some sense of anticipation beginning to weave through his veins as Hamilton settles back behind him, presses another kiss to the nape of his neck.  
  
They lie close under the blankets, one of Hamilton’s legs settling loosely over Laurens’, and suddenly he thinks that the garret should not seem as ice after all, more a fire dancing heatedly on ground fair cleared of snow. Though walls of cold surround them, there be only flames between them.  
  
Hesitantly, almost _teasingly_ slowly, Hamilton weaves his fingers through Laurens’ hair, each small tug of resistance sending shocks of heat down Laurens’ spine, so that he finds himself pressing back desperate, _needy_ into Hamilton’s touch.  
  
Hamilton makes a small sound of amusement, seems to take fair hold of Laurens’ hair, pulls just that small bit harder—  
  
Laurens groans involuntarily, then stills, feeling somewhat embarrassed.  
  
He be not allowed to stew in this feeling long, for Hamilton must lean up, starts kissing, sucking, biting gently against the skin of Laurens’ neck, and Laurens gasps as Hamilton tugs again whilst at the same time teasing his other hand over Laurens stomach and down.  
  
“Alexander—” Laurens tries, but finds he has not the words for what he wants, instead only presses back again Hamilton’s palm, arches his neck slightly, as Hamilton takes this for invitation to recommence his attentions to the soft skin of Laurens’ throat, pulls Laurens’ hair again, releases, pulls, releases, and Laurens gasps, writhes, finds his own hand reaching for his breeches, is batted away by Hamilton’s fingers, as his dear boy smiles into his skin playfully.  
  
“Allow me, John.”  
  
“I think,” Laurens tries. “I think—”  
  
Hamilton tugs his hair again gently; does not release it.  
  
“Harder,” breathes Laurens shakily, and it near startled out of him, for there, that the simplest manner he may convey the desire he were trying so desperately to find words to express.  
  
Hamilton teases his other hand closer to the ties of Laurens’ breeches. “Are you sure, my dear?” he murmurs.  
  
Laurens attempts to nod, but of course he still caught in Hamilton’s grasp, so this only succeeds in his hair being pulled tighter, and _oh_ , he—he had no notion that such an action could evoke this pleasure afore now, and is somewhat unsure on the moralities of it, but cannot find much care when he pressed so close to Hamilton; indeed, can feel Hamilton’s own arousal at such a situation against his side.  
  
Hamilton seems to realise this action the agreement he waits for, and so begins to unlace Laurens’ breeches, his small clothes, carefully ensuring his grip in Laurens’ hair never ceases pressure, and Laurens finds himself helpless to resist, a situation that should usually cause every defence, every resistance, to rise, for he should always be chasing some desperate, rigid control of himself, and this seems so opposite to that, and yet—  
  
Hamilton slides his fingers inside Laurens’ small clothes, holds him _just tight enough,_ begins to set the perfect rhythm, one leg thrown over Laurens’, whilst at the same time never ceasing his attentions to Laurens mouth, his neck, his throat, his lips swollen and pink in the soft candlelight, strands of his fiery hair brushing Laurens’ jaw.  
  
Laurens goes to speak of how beautiful Hamilton may appear, how wonderous, how heavenly, though his actions should be anything but, truly; Hamilton clenches his fist in Laurens’ hair just that little bit firmer, and then Laurens has no words at all, but moans, and whimpers, and gasps, and pleas.  
  
However strange it may feel, however outside of his character, Laurens finds that he much enjoys yielding this control to Hamilton, as though for this moment he may be utterly undone, allowed to exist free of what limits he places upon himself, held tight and safe and sure by Hamilton’s strong hands, not required to assert his manner, his person, his wants or desires, for Hamilton be in possession of all control, all action, and it is both the most secure and the most pleasured Laurens thinks he has felt thus far in such sinful actions undertaken with his Alexander.  
  
Hamilton groans into Laurens’ neck; Laurens realises he has pressed closer behind him, grinds against him, and Laurens moves slightly so that Hamilton should also receive some friction; at this, Hamilton’s hand tightens reflexively in Laurens’ hair, nails digging into scalp slightly, his other hand shuddering slightly in its attentions, and Laurens’ cries out, not in pain, but in bliss, and then sees sparks, stars, a taunting of distant cold light, and he is undone.  
  
“Alexander,” he manages eventually, voice wrecked, as Hamilton smirks, seems very much pleased with himself, leans down to capture Laurens in a soft kiss. “You are—you are incredible, my dear.”  
  
Hamilton huffs, proper smile spreading, though his eyes are still darkened, strained. He withdraws his hand from Laurens’ breeches, begins to withdraw the other from Laurens’ hair, and Laurens realises what he now intends; to pleasure himself with Laurens so sated.  
  
Laurens forces his heavy, satisfied limbs to turn over.  
  
“Alexander,” he murmurs. “Now _you_ must allow _me_.”  
  
“My dear—” begins Hamilton. “I truly do not mind—”  
  
Laurens leans over Hamilton, forces him to silence by instigating a hot, heated kiss, which Hamilton pretends an objection to, though such is rather undermined by his desperate moan when Laurens even so much as brushes over the ties to his breeches.  
  
As Laurens runs slicked fingers over Hamilton, head bent to bite, to lick, to suck at Hamilton’s perfect throat, the soft skin of his neck, his chest, press kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead, gazes at his face in expressions of ecstasy, Hamilton suddenly slides a hand up Laurens other arm, where it braces against the bed, up his arm, over his shoulder, around the back of his neck, into his hair.  
  
Laurens stills a moment, cannot move, until Hamilton squirms under his touch, moans desperately _Jack_ , and Laurens finds movement again, just as Hamilton’s grip in his hair tightens.  
  
He groans into the skin of Hamilton’s shoulder, near bites down, and Hamilton, hot and heated and needy, cants upwards more insistently into Laurens palm, whimpers, pulls Laurens’ hair a little harder, a little sharper, and Laurens swallows hard, increases pace, murmurs into the skin of Hamilton’s neck _Alexander, you are exquisite_ , and it as though these words trigger some hidden release in Hamilton, for he groans, cries out sharply, a sound equivalent to the most beautiful symphonies in Laurens’ ears, and he too falls apart, slicking Laurens’ hand, his fingers, and then the only noise be Hamilton’s quiet pants, and Laurens’ gentle kisses to his dear’s slack lips.

Eventually, Laurens rolls back towards his side of the small bed, the sheets in a tangled mess about his knees.  
  
The cold in the room seems banished, or as though there some covering surrounding their corner, where ice and terror and pain cannot hope to penetrate, cannot make known their existence.  
  
Hamilton reaches out, touches Laurens jaw gently; Laurens leans into his palm.  
  
“Well,” says Hamilton softly. “I feel we have learned much this eve.”  
  
Laurens huffs with slight amusement. “Hmm. Aye. It seems so.”  
  
Hamilton’s eyes narrow playfully. “I think I may put such to excellent use in the future.”  
  
Laurens blinks lazily; it rare that he feels so contented, so tenderly cherished, and it a feeling he does not wish to lose his grip on just yet. “I also think I may do the same, for you are certainly… _exquisite_ , Alexander.”  
  
Hamilton flushes at this repeated praise, near as red as his own sweat-glistened hair. He clears his throat. “Aye. Well. I did not realise—”  
  
“That you so wondrous, my dear boy?”  
  
Hamilton shifts closer, lays his head against Laurens’ shoulder. “I—I think…it were hearing _you_ say such things that I desire most, Jack.”  
  
“Well,” says Laurens, ducking down to kiss Hamilton upon his head. “I shall make sure to always remind you of how truly beautiful you are, if it results in such as this.”  
  
Hamilton smiles, though so tenderly that he almost appears sad. Then, his eyes glint rather wickedly. “I think your hair may boast many tangles come morn.”  
  
Now, it Laurens’ turn to flush.  
  
“I…had not realised—”  
  
“No,” says Hamilton, expression mischievous. “But now that we have, I have many things I may yet wish to try with you, my dear.”  
  
And if Laurens so dreams that eve of such sinful pleasures, there be only one man to blame, and he pressed up against his side, both of them cocooned in a world of their own warmth and denial.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!  
> this is the first "mature" fic I've ever actually finished/posted, so I was a tad (read: a lot) nervous. Hope y'all enjoyed it :)
> 
> (also, shout out to my talented gf Blue_Clover, for reading through this for me before I posted <3 I was so nervous & you really helped ma mie)


End file.
